July 1, 2021

It's just a day, for some a birthday,

One, ten, or eighty years old,

Maybe one of memorial

For loved ones no longer we hold,

Others, an anniversary, 

Paper, Bronze, or Gold.

One of three hundred fifty-some.

It's just a day, I am told.

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Facebook recycles my memories

As if not just another day,

My Covid-clearing app reminds

Me that I am good to go today.

But all around friends and family

Take a moment to push the pain away,

While I ponder the circumstances

That have me still here this day.

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Any crisis that decides to choose July First

To rear its ugly head

Is wasting its time in comparison

With what 2017 bred.

Everybody hates clichés about perspective

Until laid down on a potential death bed,

Fluffing up the pillows

For ten days your loved ones dread.

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So on a day that bore Debbie Harry and Dan Aykroyd,

Became the independence of Rwanda,

Sees Bobby Bonilla still paid by the New York Mets¹,

I am glad I missed the Great Beyond; uh,

I have to admit the time I've been given

Makes all the sweeter things I am most fond of,

Including the art of writing poetry

That like a train wreck is bound to astound ya.

¹If you want to read the saga of the worst deal (or best deal, depending upon perspective) in sports ever, read it here.